Believable
by Yrfeloran
Summary: In the aftermath of the Kinslaying, Maglor needs to make some decisions.


The sea terrified Makalaure.

He had never given it much thought before – a true Noldor, the earth was in his blood, and the shores of Valinor had held no interest for him.

The ship heaved again, as if it was trying to throw him off. It probably was – he had laughed at the thought that these Teler –things- could be compared to the gems of the Noldor, but there was a disturbing…aliveness about this one at least. Retreating below would be the wise thing to do, but he'd been rather in shock. The storm had came upon them suddenly, and Makalaure thought it Valar-wrought.

There was a reason he didn't want to go below. The storm had spared them the worst, from what he had glimpsed floating by, and he knew why. And he really didn't want to think about that at all, because he knew that there would be a worse reckoning later. Unless they won.

Here, beset by a power he was helpless to fight, Makalaure clung desperately to the mast and valiantly resisted the urge to vomit.

What was he going to –do- with them?

The sea hadn't washed off the blood, Makalaure noticed. The disintegrating hroa of the Teler captain had washed overboard, though, and with him all other evidence of the swift, treacherous knife strike that had gutted him while the Sea-elf was staring in disbelief at some explosive chaos caused when the rest of Feanor's kin abandoned any pretense of stealth.

It had been a good distraction for the ships Maglor's force had seized to slip out of dock, their own task completed. He hadn't wanted to stay to watch. Having to watch the silver-haired captain…probably some cousin of his by marriage, even… bleed out on the deck had been disturbing enough.

He was…very rattled. The Teler corpse was in good company. The ship passed Noldor bodies every so often, most with no wound on them. His people knew the workings of craft and artifice better than any other, but they were no sailors.

The remaining ships his strike force had captured gathered into a loose and incompetent flotilla, following signals. While Makalaure's own ship had escaped out unscathed, the others were clearly mauled, and a few ships were missing entirely.

He heard the reports of his lieutenant. The ship was poorly provisioned, just Teler lembas that tasted to him like blood. They would be heading to shore to take on provisions for the long sail North. They did have enough freshwater to last them – all of them – a while though.

'You should go below', his man Handawe said to him, not for the first time.

The ship was cramped, made for Teler height and not Noldor. There were a few tiny cabins – one was reserved for him, he supposed. The rest of the deck had fiendish net contraptions to sit or sleep in. At first he thought that the ship itself had snared his followers like an ocean fish and was displaying its catch to him as a promise, or a threat.

Perhaps he was going a little mad.

Handawe drew his sword and stood as guard as Makalaure manhandled the hatch open.

The hold was even more crowded, as it was half-full of Teleri. All of them were staring at him with an expression so venomous that even his father might have had to work some to top it.

The son of Feanor nervously cleared his throat, trying to recall his Teleri. He'd learned it, like he'd learned all the tongues known in Valinor, even the secret ones that his father made up on the sly and had taught him in brighter times. But it had been… some time.

"Ah," he said faintly, his voice not carrying any of the power that had stunned them long enough for his followers to disarm them. His father-name had some truth to it after all, but he did not rejoice in it now. "I am afraid we are short on provisions. All courtesy will be given to you in the…"

One dark-haired man interrupted him, loud and angry,"You foul our tongue with your words. Be silent."

Makalaure snarled back, courtesy abandoned in his irritation. "I am –trying- to make some things clear to you."

"Everything is clear," said a slimmer Teler – a woman, one of two they had captured.

"You are not only a murderer, but a keeper of thralls," another said.

"...and serve the Enemy unwitting while you name him your foe," the first continued

Makalaure's hand slammed down on the deck above them at the voices of the captives, angry beyond words for a moment. "That's…." 'a lie', he meant to say, but the words died on his tongue. "You are -not- my thralls." Handawe by him looked nervous, catching some little of the conversation.

"What do you mean to do with us, then?" the youngest Teler said, and there was a shadow of fear in his voice. A few of the others were clearly annoyed that he had spoken.

-They don't want to show fear-, Maglor thought. -How very -Noldor- of them-. It would be amusing, if it wasn't so deadly serious.

"I…." The Noldor prince closed his mouth "I haven't decided yet."

"It shouldn't be your decision!" the first who had dared to address him said. "You compound your evil deeds."

Ignoring them for the moment, Makalaure glanced helplessly at Handawe, speaking softly in Quenya "What –am- I to do with them, friend?"

Handawe cocked his head before answering dispassionately. "You are our lord, and judgment is not for me to give. You can always free them overboard...the Lords of the Sea may still be hungered." Handawe had also seen the bodies of friend and kin floating by, and his anger was undimmed.

Makalaure considered that for a brief, savage moment, then shook his head. He finally said to them, coldly, "My people will feed you, while I consider your case." He shut the hatch, and left in anger.

In time, the ships made their way to where the host had gathered, though they were not the first. Makalaure felt the malice of the waves as he took the ship's small boat to shore, and shivered. before turning his back on the sea and seeking the Feanorian camp on high ground.

"Oh, there you are." Tyelkormo smiled at him, when he got there "We were worried." The Feanorian drew his brother to a small fire, and waved those around it away. They embraced. "You are well?" the younger asked, as he saw the look on his brother's face."

"I went out further than I should have, apparently, and had to find how to sail against the wind." Makalaure sighed. "How goes it then?"

Tyelkormo cocked his head. "Our youngest uncle is silent and near rebellion. Nerwen is louder and vicious in her condemnation. Findekano and Russandol are not speaking, and Russandol is grieved by this. Our eldest uncle is plotting with his captains as we speak. Father is angered that we have stopped, even if just to load the horses and our other goods. Curufinwe had another row with his son. Oh, and Carnastir can't swim."

"It's almost as if we were back in Tirion." Makalaure said lightly.

"No" Tyelkormo said grimly. "It's worse." He looked out in the darkness and the fog that had come out, obscuring the stars, and sighed. "It does seem you managed to keep most of your ships, which is good. You didn't have much trouble then?"

"There is a reason I asked to go for the fishing ships. They're larger and less prized than the royal galleys and pleasure sailing craft." Makalaure frowned, before quietly murmuring. "Olwe was waiting for us, wasn't he?"

Tyelkormo nodded curtly. "You know how long father talked to him. Enough for him to realize this wasn't some foolish -whim- of his. But he was thrall-minded even so, and like the Powers, expected us to either repent...or -swim-."

Makalaure flinched slightly at that, but his brother, caught up in his own suppressed anger, didn't notice. Tyelkormo continued, a little lighter in tone. "You escaped early then. On schedule. We worried about you, when your folk didn't come to our aid. We...could have used you."

His brother cleared his throat. He could use his brother's advice on this "I...ah...have my own problems."

"That you want to talk about." Tyelkormo smiled lazily. "Speak then. -I- won't tell."

"Not even Father?"

Tyelkormo was quiet a moment then, and only the sounds of the camp could be heard, and the faint cry of a gull. "It's -that- kind of problem, then. Ah. I...can be discreet."

Makalaure almost asked his word on it, as he might have done - in better times. But not now.

"We did not face that many at the fishing docks. I have...most of them, in my hold."

Tyelkormo drew in his breath "What, alive?"

Makalaure nodded, gloomily.

"...Ah. I won't ask you how you managed -that-. Couldn't you have left them ashore or something?"

"I...Things went fast. We were trying not to...." Makalaure closed his eyes. "...It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Tyelkormo nodded, but his face was set in remembered anger. "I…". He calmed himself, and spoke with false calmness."Well, we can't let them out here - it would get out somehow. Father would probably want to kill them, Nerwen would...the politics are unstable enough without shooting another arrow into the fray. It would weaken Father's position."

"I suppose then that we cannot let them go when we have reached the further lands either, for they have kin there, and...such stories as they might tell, might turn their kin against us."

Tyelkormo shrugged, uncaring. "They'd be discovered before, in any case. Before we load the ships, you can sail south and let them go quietly somewhere. I will make your excuses. Your people won't speak of it?"

"I trust them." Makalaure said, then added "And I made them give their word not to speak without my consent."

"That is well then," his brother said, and lapsed again into silence, considering. The cries of gulls could be heard again, and Tyelkormo cocked his head, looking confused for but a moment. He glanced to the mist-choked sea and froze before speaking quietly and urgently. "Brother…I do not see your ship."

Startled, Makalaure looked up as well, and though even the closest ships could hardly be seen through the fog, there was a gap. The pair of them exchanged glances before heading down to the shore, Tyelkormo stopping only to string his bow with a swift, practiced action, and then to grab a torch.

He had left some few to guard in the thought that they would suffice, but as they reached the shore, Makalaure saw that the Teler had not taken prisoners. A few bodies silently floated on the waves, adorning Uinen's hair. The far cries of gulls seemed to mock him - but no, that was not true birdsong. Tyelkormo, who knew that speech, had known.

Ropes - no doubt the ropes that had bound the prisoners - had been knotted and looped around the necks of his liegemen so as to choke the breath out of them, so they would not cry out. They had been careless.

No, -he- had been careless. The burning anger rose in him as he saw Handawe, bruised and battered, float near the shore.

From here they could see the shadow of the sails unfurled through the unnatural mist. A far shot even for his brother. Tyelkormo lit one of the long arrows from his quiver -and he saw the head was dipped in some strange tar. Makalaure thought of the fires he had seen looking back on Alqualonde, and he shuddered.

Tyelkormo looked at Makalaure, then at the ship. "Brother?" he asked, softly. It -was- his ship.

Death for death. Mercy had been a foolishness, and his people had died for it. Makalaure nodded curtly, giving his permission. The wind picked up.

He looked down as Tyelkormo took the shot. Even for him, it was far, and uncertain. When Makalaure looked up, hesitantly, the fog had closed again.

He never asked his brother if the arrow had hit its mark, nor did the two ever speak of the matter again. They came before their father afterward, to answer for the loss of the ship. Makalaure was afraid, but Tyelkormo said that he had seen it, that it had slipped its moorings as the tide went out and wrecked far out, against some rocks. He lied without a thought, so skillfully that even Makalaure almost forgot it was a falsehood. Noldor were not sailors. It was...believable.


End file.
